For You are with Me

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This is one of those things that really happened. Many thanks to my partner/sometimes-Dom for making me sit down the very next day and write the story. Here’s to my first foray into erotica.

I’m a very lucky girl indeed.


I had been meeting The Sadist as schedules would allow for two years. Which is to say, I knew him well enough to know he could be trusted; that he would bring a delightful mix of playful and sexy energy; that he would not put me in a situation where I could be legitimately harmed (though of course, the things we did sometimes carried intrinsic risks); and that night, most of all, that he was not afraid of breaking me, nor was he afraid of the consequences of hurting me.

Because that day, I needed to be hurt.

The need had been sitting mostly dormant for a very long time. Usually it simmered in the recesses of my consciousness, but days like that day, it bubbled up to the surface, strong, clear, and undeniable. It was a craving for impact, abdication of power, punishment, discipline, training, pain, endurance, eroticism, negotiation, and aftercare. It was a soul’s cry for catharsis; a wanderlust of being driven past the end of comfort into the wild and unpredictable margins of pain and yielding. It was a need to take the raw experience of pain and paint it with meaning. The Sadist did not need to know that as he was working on my body, my brain was shifting from processing the pain in the moment, to reflecting on high life priorities that I’d been neglecting…priorities like self-care, stoking of erotic fantasies, and enactment of seduction and sensuality; working to overcome repression of pleasure, both physical and mental; learning not to hold back responses for fear of making messes. I needed inspirational pain.

That morning, I asked him bluntly, “Feeling up to being a little sadistic?”

His wicked, quick reply was what I expected. “Yes, I do. … Can I leave marks?”

At my desk, in my professional and highly-respectable office, I blushed, and answered “Yes. Though you won’t be starting with a fresh canvas. My ass is still a mess from a spanking last week.”

I always felt a little ashamed when exposing bruises to a lover that had been given by another. It wasn’t that I was unfaithful; they all were well aware of each other. Rather, I cared that they might judge me as being greedy, or difficult to satisfy. I worried that they might have a primal need to compete with one another, and that the drive for supremacy would nudge their ego to take precedence over the experience of him and me together in a room, in a place, in a time, where other people and experiences were backstory to the unfolding present moment.

But bless him, the Sadist was not phased. “Are the marks primarily on your ass? And if so, can I mark other places?”

“You can mark other places, yes.” Remembering that The Sadist had a wicked erotic vocabulary that far surpassed my own, I asked, “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know quite yet. I’m thinking rope partials and caning. And, I don’t think I’ve ever marked your breasts.”

My breath caught; the thought of having my breasts abused sent a pulse from my nipples to my clit. I was pleased that he remembered what we had and had not yet experienced together. Sometimes, I wondered how he could keep track of the nuances and experiences of play with all of his girls. I secretly pictured him having a catalog of notecards with preferences and play notes, much like my hairstylist did with notes on each client’s cuts, colors, formulas, and preferences.

“I would like that. Very much.”

“It will be interesting. I’m looking forward to tonight even more now.”

The day passed with its mundane routines. The only real hiccup was the emergence of a inexplicable and foul stench from my nether regions. I’m not prone to disruptions of intimate flora, so the timing was surprising and particularly mortifying. I considered cancelling, but the Sadist is also a realist and had on many occasions proven he was not squeamish about much more obvious and problematic biologic challenges. So, I threw in a tampon and sent him a text warning, hoping for the best, full of disappointment that that particular region would be out of commission for the evening.

That evening, I arrived at his house. He met me at the front door with open arms, pulling me close to his body and holding me while I embraced him back, breathing in his scent of woodsy vanilla and masculinity. He kissed me, pressing lips together, teasing with tongue, hands caressing my back, grasping my hair at the nape, controlling me, moving my head just so, opening me so that he could kiss my neck at the pulse points.

He took my hand and lead me down the hallway to the playroom. A bondage frame filled the small space. Pillows and blankets haphazardly covered the floor. On a futon, his collection of natural ropes was set out…so many ropes. I tried to keep my focus on him, and tried to avoid curious glances at the open case full of canes, floggers, and other known impact toys. The array of disorder set my organized, controlled sensibilities slightly off kilter, and vbet I buried my face against his chest, grasping for grounding and stability. As I held him, I stepped out of my shoes, then leaned in even closer against him.

He whispered, “Are you going to be my good girl tonight?” I nodded shyly against his T-shirt.

“Are you going to be my pain toy?” I whimpered softly, wetness starting to flow between my legs, and nodded again.

He stepped back and removed my dress above my head, leaving me standing in my bra, which he also quickly removed. The act of being undressed left me feeling vulnerable and also ridiculously spoiled. In that moment, was I a pampered princess, or a very small child? A treasured doll to be undressed, or a feminine thing to be used and ravaged? I relished that at that moment, the choice of who I was to be was not mine, but his…I simply chose to enter deeper into the contract of space and time with him, to yield, and trust.

He kissed me, devouring my tongue; I kissed him back, willing him to feel my admiration and desire for him, hoping that the dance of my tongue would be enough to tell him that for tonight, I had entered into a yielding to his will, to please him, to take his pain.

He placed his hand firmly on my shoulder and pressed me to kneel. With my eyes closed and downcast, he began to bind me with the ropes. The first rope was placed intently and snugly around my upper chest, swaddling above my heart. He bound each of my upper arms in turn. He placed ropes around my breasts, isolating them, binding them tight so that each one stood proud and independent…perfect, discrete targets for his sadistic ministrations.

He laid me down on my back, face to the ceiling. He bent my right leg at the knee, and he bound my right ankle to the thigh, ropes high and tight near my hip. He repeated this with my left ankle and thigh. He caught my left wrist and bound it to the left leg, then did the same with the right. I lie there, legs open and vulnerable, breasts exposed. He wrapped a single rope around my waist, knotting it at my navel, and from that, he lifted my middle up toward the ceiling until I was caught in a struggle to balance on my shoulders and bent tiptoes…an exposed, arched bridge of exposed belly and breasts and thighs. I breathed, realizing he had intentionally placed me in a predicament that would lead to smoldering exhaustion. I steeled my core for the challenge, tried to find a grounded center, and accepted that The Sadist had bound me in a position where there was truly very little I could do to avoid impact.

I heard him move to his bag. “Are you ready to suffer for me?”

“Yes. Please.”

The air split, and the first strike came down hard on my left upper thigh with a crack. I cried out and tried to make sense of the sensation. It was a cane. The strike was heavy, and the impact went deep. At first, there was a sting on the surface, which quickly diffused across my whole thigh in an expanding circle of aching, then contracted back to the strip of direct impact. And with that strike, my whole body began to come alive with a wash of endorphins.

Another crack, this time on the other thigh. A yelp, and again, the pulse wave of pain and relief. As the sharp pain receded, a sense of heat and aching began to build between my open legs, and I felt the first emergence of telltale moisture. I sighed my contented thanks.

Another strike, and another, and another in the same area on the first thigh, each placed to draw power from the one that came before. The Sadist definitely had a plan, and intended to make me suffer for him. “Are you still going to be my little pain slut?” “Yes, Si…ow!” The blows came more frequently now, one thigh, then the other, then a pause. Then, the first eruption of pain on my breast. My breasts, which had never been abused with canes, came alive at their heavy, impactful contact. My eyes opened wide, and I looked at the Sadist with uncertainty. “You are my girl tonight. You are beautiful when you suffer for me.” I saw him raise the cane again, and I closed my eyes as it streaked back down to my breasts, top, then bottom; left, then left again, then right, then across the nipple. He paused as I cried and sucked in air, slowly and deeply, letting the pain wash through, down to my now fully-aroused pussy, and diffusing out like a spectral mist, both a release and a gift. Vivid stripes began to appear in a hatch-mark pattern across my breasts, imposed over a field of red swelling.

Cane strikes rained down on my belly, low, close to my intimate places. Again, and again. The aching of the position was becoming burdensome; I struggled to lift my middle as I also tried to draw away from the blows that alternately pushed down on my hips, then back to my thighs. I continued to whimper and yelp as the blows kept coming. “Inhale for me.” I drew a deep breath, thankful for his warning that a truly heavy blow was about to land. A significantly heavier blow hit my thigh on the same abused place; I yelled and exhaled, breathing deep and slow while the sting diffused, then subsided. “Good girl.” Pause. “Inhale.” Again, vbet giriş and again, and again, the Sadist prepared me, the struck my thighs, breasts, and belly, hitting the same tender areas again and again, a ritual of breath and contact and release.

I shifted and squirmed; the blows of the cane were replaced with the relatively pleasant broad stroke of a flogger across my breasts…*swish, swish…swish, swish…thwack!…swish, swish…* Then, a sharp stroke across my exposed pussy; stroking across, across, across, down through, then further back. My pussy glowed red with heat and want and the marks of the flogger.

For a quiet moment, The Sadist paused, and I felt the rope around my waist being adjusted, lifted even higher. I shifted to my tiptoes, belly arched to the sky. My thighs began to burn; my mid-back ached and cramped. I twisted up on my toes, knees to the sides and spread wide, trying to find rest, just as the cane blows began again. “Deep breath”, he said, then the cane fell hard across my left inner thigh – tender, fresh, and stinging. I cried, swallowing, choking back the need to ask for reprieve, becoming resolved to bear the rhythm of waves of pain washing over me and receding. “Deep breath”, he said, then a searing pain tore across my right inner thigh, making contact with my delicate skin in between, all the way from front to the cleft of my buttocks behind, and I heard sobbing and felt tears running down my cheeks. The Sadist sensed the release instantly. I heard him saying “Good girl… give me all your tears. All the tears that you never cry…you can give them to me.” I floated in the pain and release.

Feelings that had been building up for days, for years, spilled out and over in a flood of tears, washing through my body like water in a ravine that flowed from heart to belly to thigh to breasts to cunt, a current racing between all the places of pain and pleasure. In that moment of unanticipated release, The Sadist held me, and continued to ask for my tears, and invited me to fully embrace the experience, to fully let go. I smiled as I realized that he had given me a rare gift… through the crack of his canes, he had also cracked through my control.

I writhed, gushing, suddenly mortified at the possibility of the moving air wafting evidence of my scent, which I imagined to be beyond unpleasant. I had a brief flash of shame at the irony that as infants, nature gives us gifts that attract the affection and care of adults – smallness, enticing coos and smiles, sweet scents, softness, and how at that moment I was devoid of all of those things. And yet The Sadist stood by, praising my tears, acknowledging my pain, drawing out my cries and delighting in my exquisite suffering. In that moment of vulnerability, I had a very clear thought of loving him.

And when my sobs had subsided, The Sadist said “You will have eight more, hard.”

“Deep breath”.

One by one, they fell.

My inner thigh blossomed with searing pain. A shriek, an exhale, sucking air between pursed lips… “One. Thank you, Sir.”

Outer thigh, harder still; shriek, longer breaths, pain again washing through my groin, my clit throbbing and my nether lips swelling. “Two. Thank you.”

Breast. Shriek. Gasp. Craving his palm against my mound. “Three.” Breathless whisper. “Thank you.”

Left. Right. Whispered “Four, thank you. AHHHHHHH. Five, thank…”

“Deep breath.” So hard, so sharp, so painful, so thrilling, so resolved to graciously accept all the gifts of his pain. “AHHHHHHHHH!! Six… thank you, sir. Please.”

He lifted me to my knees, to expose my backside. To expose parts that had been unmolested, and that were not already primed for pain. “Deep breath.” The cane landed deep and broad in a vertical stripe across my outer backside and thigh. I sputtered. “Seven. Thank you.”

A resolute sense of loss settled as for the last time he said “Deep breath.” My other thigh exploded as he completed the last stripe. I let the sensation become my world as the heat and aching pulsed through the back of my thigh. While I would undoubtedly feel it the next day, rubbing the memories like a smooth stone in my pocket, I already felt the loss of the time that had been, the thrill in my body, the closeness to him.

The Sadist moved behind me and held me as I came back to awareness of my body in the moment, the room, and the feel of his chest against my back. He guided my body as it slowly melted back to the floor, lying back, still bound in the ropes, skin flushed and hot. Welts raised on the front of my thighs; thin, red, parallel lines superimposed on twin mound of blue swelling. My breasts, still standing out like pearls, gleamed red and radiated heat; nipples red and stiffly swollen with inflammation and arousal. Ropes remained around my waist, thighs, breasts, wrists – I was still at his mercy, and tranquilized with the blissful high of surrender and submission.

His hands began to caress my body, gliding across my belly, up to the tender breasts. He circled them, fingertips skimming over rising welts and stiffening nipples. I closed my eyes and moaned, arching vbettr into his hands. He responded by catching my already abused nipple between his fingers, hard, twisting, sending another swell of pain and pleasure rushing down between my legs. He continued to hold tight as my moan turned to a cry. He held on still as my cry became louder, a wail, my body begging for an end to the torture while my will fought to bear more to please him. The wail turned to a whimper, and a plea for mercy. His fingers released their grip and he returned to stroking my breasts and body while I caught my breath, pleasure throbbing in my sweetest spot. Just as my body began to relax, I felt his hand cover my mound, heel of palm pressing hard into my pubis, fingers wrapping around to tease the opening to my vagina, just as he bit below my left breast, hard, persistent – again allowing the pain to take root, grow, and blossom throughout my body. The intensity was indescribable; the harder he bit, the more my pussy responded with aching wetness. Bound, I was unable to pull him in to devour me, or to push him away from fear that he actually might. And I wanted to reciprocate with my mouth, devouring him in return.

As if reading my mind, I felt him release my skin with his mouth, hands moving up my from my pussy, slowly wiping circles over my belly, over my breasts…fingers gliding up the side of my neck to brush my cheek, stroking my face, tracing my lips with his fingers. I licked at his fingertips, caught his index finger and sucked it into my mouth, tasting the salt and masculinity, feeling the texture, thanking the hands that had bound and used me so wonderfully… my hunger was building for tastes of the droplets that I knew must be forming on his cock. I released his fingers from my mouth and asked, “Please…can I taste you?”

“Good girl.” I felt the humid warmth of his crotch as he moved close to my face. I nuzzled against his pubic bone, feeling the coarseness of his pubic hair against my nose. I inhaled his scent, relishing the impalpable sensations that emanated from his manhood. I raised my head as best I could and licked him tentatively from the base of his cock to the tip, catching the viscous drop on my tongue, feeling the rush as the sweet taste dominated my senses. Saliva flowed, wetting my mouth to take more of him. My pussy clenched hard, and I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and gently, slowly sucked him in to my mouth.

Few things thrill me like having a man fill my mouth, and I savored the way he filled my lips. I began to suck harder, pulling him along the top of my mouth to my throat while my tongue tried to embrace the bottom of his shaft, running over all his ridges and furrows. I covered my teeth and slid up and down the length of him as tightly as I could, milking more of the exquisite precum onto my tongue. My saliva frothed as his juices increased, and I could feel him moving more forcefully, more wantonly.

As he increased the intensity, I felt my pussy swelling, then contracting as I flooded my release, my own ejaculate flowing out as I moaned, and as he also moaned his release, filling my throat with his savory, slick juices. I swallowed greedily, trying hard to keep all that he had given me from spilling out of the corners of my mouth.

He pulled out, wiping the back of his hand over my wet mouth. “You are my slut tonight. Good girl. You have suffered for me so beautifully. Would you like a reward?”

I breathily replied, “Oh Sir. You already given me so much. But, if it pleases you…”

I hear a familiar buzzing sound, and he placed a vibrating wand between my legs. The sensation sent a shock through me, and as he pressed the large toy to the tender skin of my mound, I was reminded that only moments before, he had been striking me repeatedly with canes.

He held the vibrator still with one hand, and with his other thumb, he slowly applied deep pressure to the darkening bruises on my thighs. The renewed pressure released another flood of endorphins which amplified the intensity of the building arousal. He chuckled as I cried out… pressing each visible cluster of marks in turn, each press followed by my cries, and a moment to acclimate to the pain, and turn to arousal. One thigh, then the other; one hip, lower belly…one breast. A deep, sustained probing of a pressure point below the other breast hit different notes of pain, and my pussy wantonly ground against the vibrator, hips struggling to find the right angle for release.

His hand reached around the front of my throat, catching just below the jawline, ever-so-gently occluding my blood flow, or at least providing the illusion of breathlessness. I pressed into his strong hands, holding my breath as I approached the chasm of release. My hips worked in a frantic race with my neck, and as my breath began to fade, my orgasm rushed forward, pushing me off the edge, falling, a whirlwind of ecstasy ricocheting through the entirety of my physical being. I contracted mightily, gushing my release, body convulsing over, and over, and over, and over; he wickedly kept the vibrator in place so that the orgasm could not stop. For minutes upon minutes, he watched me continue to spasm in climax, body writhing, wetness flowing, crying, begging for an end to the release, and my body betrayed me as it continued to respond to the pleasure. I cried for mercy, and at last, he relented.

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